Not Her Type
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: Ginny teaches Hermione that Mr. Right might not be her type. Oneshot


**OMG, _another_ oneshot?! Yes, my dear readers, another one. I know I should stop writing them, and start working on my multi-chaptered ones but...*sigh*...I'm just not good at that right now. Eventually I'll get an idea for them but right now...I don't, sorry.**

Hermione Granger had known plenty boys in her lifetime, and dated a few too. But she had never found _him_, the one, "Mr. Right".

She figured it was her fault. Her wiry brunette hair, big teeth, and dull brown eyes were bound to be a turnoff. The only thing about her that _may_ draw guys in would be her intelligence, but how many men like women with _just _brains?

One day Hermione was sulking in the Gryffindor common room. Her friend, Ginny Weasley, noticed Hermione's dour behavior and walked over to comfort her.

"What is it, 'Mione?" asked the redhead sincerely. Hermione sighed, her head in her hands.

"What's wrong with my, Ginny?" she asked, "How come none of the boys like me?" Ginny looked incredulously at her, and then shook her head as though Hermione's question was foolish.

"What boys specifically?" asked Ginny. Hermione was a little surprised at her comment. _What kind of question is that?_ she thought.

"Um…_all_ of them." said Hermione. Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed exasperatedly.

"You've dated _all_ the boys in the world?" she asked. Hermione knitted her brow in confusion. Ginny was acting a tad odd with her questioning, in Hermione's mind at least.

"Well…no," responded Hermione, "but why does that matter?" Ginny laughed in surprise, and Hermione's eyebrow rose in perplexity.

"Hermione, the only boys you've dated are Gryffindors, right?" said Ginny. This was true, but why had Ginny asked such a silly question? Hermione nodded impatiently.

"Why don't you try dating a Slytherin?" Hermione gasped at her Weasley pal. _Slytherin?!_ she thought, _Ginny must be joking!_

"Ginny, have you gone mental?" said Hermione loudly, "I'd _never_ take one of those pureblood gits!"

"Why not?" asked Ginny. Hermione opened her mouth to reply but no reason came to mind. There had to be a billion reasons but she could not put her finger on one. She ended up sputtering childishly until she made up a reason.

"Because…they're not my type!" yelled Hermione. Ginny moaned in aggravation, but there was still a smile upon her lips.

"You need to step out of your comfort zone." she explained, "Your Mr. Right might _not_ be your type. Or he could be, you never know! The world's full of different personalities! Remember: variety is the spice of life." Hermione growled at Ginny in anger, but as her words sunk in, they made sense. There were gazillions of people (men included) of varied personas on Earth. Just sticking to her type—intelligent, witty, gentle-hearted, Muggle-born or half-blood—could cause her to be lonely. It wasn't impossible to fall in love with your polar opposite; she looked at her mate Harry Potter's parents as an example. His dad, James, was popular, a little mean, and an average student, whilst his mom, Lily, was normal, kind, and an excellent student. Not to mention Mr. Potter was pureblood and Mrs. Potter was Muggle-born. Would it truly be a crime if she expanded her romantic horizon?

The next day Hermione sucked up her fear and distaste for them, and did as Ginny said. While in Potions class, she caught Draco Malfoy, Slytherin's best and worst man, close to her cauldron. She glared at him, having second thoughts, when Ginny's words echoed in her brain. _Variety is the spice of life…_

_Okay, why not Malfoy?_ she thought, _He's _certainly_ not my type_. She pushed away from her potion, took a deep breath, and walked the short distance to Malfoy.

"Hey, Ma—Draco," she greeted nervously, and the blonde boy looked to her, "I was, uh, wondering…" _Variety is the spice of life…_ she said to herself over and over again as she watched Malfoy's face. _Variety is the spice of life…Variety is the spice of life…Variety is the spice of life…_

"Would you…maybe…like to…accompany me…perhaps to…Hogsmeade this Saturday?" she said, her throat drying, "We could, possibly, maybe, go to The Three Broomsticks for lunch…perchance?" Malfoy just stared at her as she finished, astonishment clouding his features. His white-blonde eyebrows were raised, his silver irises opened wider than usual, his lips parted a little in bewilderment at being asked out by a Muggle-born.

"What kind of a prank is this, Granger?" he asked, malice in his voice though his face still appeared stunned, "Trying to pull one over on me?" Hermione expected his reaction to be different—an insult with a smirk. She was a little taken aback when he didn't even say "Mudblood" to her. She tried to respond but failed, like with Ginny, until she eventually found an answer.

"N-no," she said, "no prank. I just thought...we might be able to go on a…a...well, you know." Malfoy bit his lip in speculation. His face was unreadable for awhile. Hermione felt herself sweating in impatience; a few curious eyeballs were on the two now, including the infamous Pansy Parkinson and baffled Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Malfoy, however, seemed unaware of the attention they were gathering, or was just savoring Hermione's discomfort before he turned her down.

"Uh…okay," said Malfoy finally, shrugging, "Sure, I…I guess." Hermione kept a befuddled gaze on him. _Yes?_ she thought, _He said "yes"?_

"Well…okay then, I'll…meet you at The Three Broomsticks Saturday?" she said, wondering if he'd suddenly start laughing and saying "Got you!" But he purely shrugged once more.

"Guess so." he replied, a grin forming on his lips. Hermione grinned too, relief rushing through her, and returned to her cauldron. _Merlin, I hope Ginny's right…_ she thought.

'~**~'

"So that's how it happened, Mummy?" asked the young boy. His mother smiled down at her son in her lap and at her daughter in her husband's.

"Yep." responded their father, "That's also why Ginny is your godmother."

"Isn't it amazing?" asked Hermione, "We'd never have known how great the other was if I stuck to 'my type'." Draco pretended to be insulted and depressed.

"I'm not your type?" he whispered as though he were truly worried. Hermione smiled and rustled her fingers through his platinum-blonde hair.

"I don't _have_ a type," she whispered, "I have only you."


End file.
